When your biggest fantasy about your husband is waking him up just so you can punch him in the face, it’s fair to say that things are not good. Lately, the onslaught of pregnancy hormones have combined with sheer exhaustion to create a cocktail of primal rage that is really not good for the marital bliss. The fury sneaks up on me, spurred by a bouquet of thoughts that are clearly unfair but that rile me all the same. I’m extra vulnerable at night, when I’m up all hours with heartburn or sciatica or nausea or the need to pee at six-minute intervals. The mental progression goes something like:
Thought #1: “Hmm, Reese; that’s an interesting name. Would that be a good baby name?”
Thought #2: “Hmph. Boyd wouldn’t like it, probably.”
Thought #3: “But he doesn’t have any better ideas, does he? He certainly hasn’t offered any lately, unless you count Howard, which I do not.”
Thought #4: “I’m always the one who brings up baby names, and then he rejects them. Why is that?”
Thought #5: “I know why. It’s because he doesn’t care about this baby. Or me.”
Thought #6: “He’s so selfish. I’ve been lying here awake in this bed for two hours and he hasn’t even woken up to offer me tea. He’s too busy resting. Every single night, the same thing. Resting and breathing and breathing and resting.”
Thought #6 is the aforementioned – admittedly undeserved and yet oddly comforting – fantasy punching.
Eight more weeks, baby.